First, to clarify, there is the Antimuse. A couple of weeks ago (maybe even longer), she took a P-90 and decimated all my plot bunnies. It was all very sad and tragic, yada yada.
Then, there is my muse.
A him. Not a her.
His name is Frank (go with me on this, folks).
Frank sits around on his ass all day, smoking cigars, not really pulling his share of the work. I ask him, "Frank, how about that slash I'm writing, let's get that finished, huh?" and Frank says, "Shaddup, bitch." Then I'll, even more patiently, go, "Hey, Frank, you like Sam and Jack, right? How about we do that nice little Sam and Jack fic? We can even make it smut..."
Then he'll look interested, but what he really does is goes and locks himself up in the bathroom and sits on the john all day.
He does that a lot.
"Frank, get off the toilet," I say.
He refuses. Says that Martin Luther was supposed to have done his best thinking while on the john.
"Yeah, well," I say to Frank, "Martin Luther was also rumoured to have conversations with the Devil and throw his excretia at the Old Baddie to keep him away."
Frank the muse still refuses to budge. He lights up a cigar (I can smell it through the bottom of the bathroom door).
With a muse like that, is it any wonder that I can't write fics? Course, I'd rather read one by someone else anyday (what are friends lists for?), but still, it'll be nice to contribute something every once in a while. But Frank isn't cooperating. And frankly, I'm starting to get sick of his bull, and am seriously thinking about trading him in for a new muse.
One that doesn't smoke, hopefully.